


The Eloquence of Dust

by iriswallpaper



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: After Sherlock left the wedding early, Angst, Dust is 70-90 percent skin cells, Heavy Angst, M/M, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock won’t let Mrs. Hudson dust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 04:29:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6596695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper/pseuds/iriswallpaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock realizes that the dust in 221B would be comprised of at least half skin cells shed by John. He comforts himself after leaving the Morsten/Watson wedding by imaging John's cells in the dusty flat.</p><p> </p><p>If course this idea came from Moriarty saying 'People people people' about the dust in TAB.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Eloquence of Dust

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to MissDavis for betaing this story!

Sherlock crested the staircase and saw that the door to the flat stood open. It had always been John who’d closed it, _Before_. Since Sherlock’s return, he often came home to find the door of his flat wide open. At least he and Mrs. Hudson were both conscientious about locking the front door so he had little to worry about. 

He’d been distracted earlier in the day. Dressing in the morning suit, styling his hair just right, making sure his shoes were polished to a high shine - putting on his armor - had taken all of his attention so he’d forgotten to close the door when he went Into Battle.

Now, the battle was over. He’d lost. And apparently lost the war, too.

With a sigh, Sherlock shrugged off his coat and hung it then toed off his shoes and black silk socks. He pulled off his silk tie, unbuttoned the black morning coat, champagne-colored waistcoat and fine cotton shirt and shed them as a unit, throwing them in a heap on the sofa. Scratching the dark hair on his chest, he approached the fireplace and was thankful to see a few sticks of kindling on the hearth. Fishing the lighter from his trouser pocket, Sherlock crouched and quickly made a small fire. 

With both hands braced against the mantle,Sherlock watched the fire. Its heat and crackle were a comfort. The evening - toasts, violin music, dancing, deductions - had carried an air of finality that frayed his nerves. After letting his mouth run on, deducing that Mary was pregnant, he’d been unable to take another minute of forced merriment. 

“Oh Christ,” Sherlock muttered when he realized he’d left his violin behind. A quick text to Molly solved the problem. She replied instantly that she had the violin at her table and would take it home with her. After replying with his thanks, Sherlock dropped dropped the mobile phone face-down on the mantle. A small puff of dust rose up from the cluttered surface.

 _Dust._ Baker Street had been so very dusty when he’d returned home. Mrs. Hudson had taken to heart the admonishment he’d given years before to not to dust the place. Sherlock ran a finger along the mantle, exposing a narrow streak of the wood surface underneath. He studied his now-furry fingertip. Dust, so eloquent. He’d recently read that dust in most homes was comprised of 70 to 90 percent shed skin cells. Rubbing the dust between his thumb and forefinger, Sherlock thought of the last time Mrs. Hudson had dusted. Taking into account his time away, it would have been three years prior. Three years ago, when he and John were happily living at Baker Street, solving cases, having adventures. John had abandoned his attempts at dating boring women. They’d been happy, so very happy. The dust on Sherlock’s finger was most probably more than half John’s cells. Cells from the happy times, when it had been just the two of them against the rest of the world. 

Sherlock sniffed at the dust on the mantle then inhaled deeply. Here was a way that he could keep John close - he could meld John’s cells into himself, inhale the John-dust. He closed his eyes and pictured John’s cells traveling through his nasal cavity, past his larynx, down his trachea, through the bronchi in both lungs to the alveoli, where they would finally be absorbed into his system and become one with the cells of his body. He sucked in another breath, then another, sniffing the dust as eagerly as if were cocaine, wanting as much of John to become a part of him as he could take in. 

When he straightened his spine and opened his eyes, Sherlock gazed at his reflection in the mirror above the fireplace. The small fire lit it from below with orange and yellow. His pupils were huge in the dim light and his nose was streaked with dust from where he’d dragged it across the mantle while sniffing. He rubbed the back of his hand across it then stared at the smeared dust on the skin of his hand, thinking of the night they’d run from the police while handcuffed together. “Take my hand,” he’d instructed, and John had done so without hesitation. He was sure John had shed skin cells then. Had the skin of his hand absorbed those cells into his bloodstream?

Bringing his hand to his lips, Sherlock licked the smudged dust from his skin. There wasn’t really a taste - the smudge was small, and all he tasted was a vague, dry skin taste of his own flesh. Leaning forward again, Sherlock licked the mantle. He thought of John’s shed cells and of how John’s skin would taste. Salty? Sweet? What type of lotions did John use - if any? Coconut, shea butter or olive oil? Would his skin taste of manly musk or sweet almond? 

The taste in his mouth was rather unpleasant. And dry, and gritty. Along with John’s cells, quite an accumulation of grit and dirt had settled on the mantel in the years since Mrs. ‘not your housekeeper’ Hudson had dusted. Swallowing a cough, he abandoned the fire for the kitchen. Luckily Mrs. Hudson had washed up the dishes after their morning tea so he had a clean glass for water to wash down John’s dust. Draining the glass, he thought of John’s cells being broken down in his stomach acid and absorbed by the villi in his small intestine. He discarded the glass in the sink and hugged his middle with both hands, silently thanking his digestive system for helping bring John and he together.

The fire was nearly burnt out; only a few embers glowed in the pile of ash. Sherlock set the firescreen on the hearth and then looked around the living room. He didn’t want to go to bed, but really didn’t want to do anything else either. A thought of the carved-wood box on the top shelf of his wardrobe flitted across his mind but he dismissed it immediately. It seemed gauche to get high after leaving John’s wedding - and especially with John’s cells circulating in his system. He absently scratched one ankle with the other big toe while he considered his next move.

With a last shake of the firescreen to make sure it was firmly in place, Sherlock padded across the living room on bare feet, out onto the landing and up the stairs, not bothering to avoid the squeaking steps since he was the only one at home. He opened the door to the bedroom he still thought of as ‘John’s room.’ John had stripped it of all his possessions after Sherlock’s ‘death,’ just as he’d stripped all of his personal items from the rest of the flat when he’d moved to the suburbs. At first Sherlock had marveled at the nearly-imperceptible change in the clutter of the flat but once he’d settled back in, he’d noticed the holes that John’s possessions had once filled: razor in the medicine cabinet, coat on his hook, shampoo in the shower, books on the shelves and DVDs in the cabinet under the telly. So much of the detritus of 221B belonged to Sherlock but the small holes left by John’s absent possessions felt like holes in Sherlock’s heart. 

When the room truly had been John’s, Sherlock had crossed the threshold only a few times. Since his resurrection, he’d not climbed the stairs at all. Now, standing just inside the doorway, Sherlock wondered why he’d come up at all. The bed, wardrobe, dresser and small chair could belong in just about any bedroom in England. Generic, no trace of John - just a bedroom. 

With a few more strides into the room, Sherlock arrived at the double bed. _John had slept here._ That thought was enough to make Sherlock drop onto the bed and bury his head in the pillows that had once cradled John’s head. He sniffed but the blue-and-yellow quilt covering the bed really didn’t smell like anything at all. Shifting slightly, he pulled a pillow out from underneath the quilt and buried his face in the white cotton pillowslip. A deep inhale revealed the same lack of scent as the quilt. Nonetheless, John’s head had rested on the pillow and he’d huddled under the quilt to keep warm on cold nights. John’s skin had shed cells onto the pillow and the quilt. He grasped the quilt’s edge and rolled toward the center of the mattress to completely encase his body in the quilt. The soft, often-washed patchwork felt divine against his bare torso and Sherlock wished he’d also removed his trousers and pants so John’s cells could coat his skin from head-to-toe 

Sherlock’s tongue darted out to swipe the pillow over and over. The pillowslip grew damp as Sherlock licked and swallowed over and over, gulping air, not even realizing that tears slipped down his face to wet the pillow until a sob broke around the lump in his throat.

John’s dust would never be enough.


End file.
